The Things That Bring Us Home
by Areiton
Summary: He's human—the cure worked. But he can remember it, every thing he did as a demon. Every demon he killed. Every woman he kissed and every laugh he coaxed from the King of Hell. And Castiel. Castiel is the only one he doesn't want to forget. A companion to Cursed or Not.
_**The Things That Bring Us Home**_

* * *

 **He's human—the cure worked.**

 **But he can remember it, every thing he did as a demon. Every demon he killed.**

 **Every woman he kissed and every laugh he coaxed from the King of Hell.**

 **And Castiel.**

 **Castiel is the only one he doesn't want to forget.**

 **A companion to** _ **Cursed or Not.**_

* * *

It takes about ten minutes for Sam to realize that I'm not faking. That the holy water he's throwing at me isn't making me hulk out because I'm me.

I'm me.

I don't know what the fuck that means anymore, but I'm me, and he's so fucking happy that he cuts me loose.

It's familiar, the hug that he wraps me up in, the kind of desperate reassurance that we're both here. Against all fucking odds, we're both here. Again.

Cas stands behind him, watching. That quiet reserved expression and the eyes that give him away every fucking time, so wide and worried and exhausted as he watches me and Sam.

Watches me.

* * *

 _He's watching me. Self satisfied little smirk on his lips as I grind against some girl whose name I don't know. Can't remember. Doesn't matter._

 _Fucking watching me. Like he's proud of me. Like I'm doing something right._

 _And it bothers me, in a distant sort of way. That Crowley is so fucking happy with me. Then she's kissing me and her hands are dancing down my sides and curving over my cock, and I don't give a fuck whose watching._

* * *

Sam doesn't like it, but I retreat. Of fucking course I retreat. I can still feel the _other_ seething along under my skin, can still feel the blood of the poor bastards I killed on my hands, and I can still taste rage.

And the furious, irrational desire to tear Sam apart.

I might be cured, but I'm riding a line so fucking fine I'm worried the wrong word will send me back.

So I retreat. I go to my room and I close myself off, and then, when that's not enough, I climb in the shower.

And that's where I fall apart.

Because I remember everything.

I remember every. _Fucking. Thing._

The demons I killed, the ones who screamed for Abaddon. The endless parade of girls that Crowley kept coming, kept me distracted and fucked out with. The endless nights, playing pool and getting drunk and falling into bed.

Wake up and do it again, and killing. So much killing.

The King of Hell took a holiday, with Dean fucking Winchester, and I cut a bloody path across America, all while Crowley smirked like a cocky bastard and poured drinks down my throat and women at my feet, like I was only following the plan that he had come up with.

I was.

That's the thing. _I was._ And I didn't even mind. I liked it. Loved not knowing who needed to be killed until the Blade was in my hand, loved not having to worry about Castiel fucking up or Sammy dying or the fucking world ending.

It was—liberating.

Intoxicating.

A really fucked up part of me wants to go back.

And that's what does it. That's why I fall apart, hit my knees in the shower and sob, these big shaking things that threaten to rip me up, my head down and water streaming over me.

I didn't want to come back.

I didn't want to lose that freedom, and carry the guilt of everything I did.

Because it's there, coating the happy, tainting the hug I'm giving Sam, and the careful look Cas is giving me.

* * *

 _He's been watching for hours. He thinks I didn't notice him._

 _Castiel has always been convinced that I don't see him. That he doesn't consume me anytime he's anywhere near me. Of course he doesn't know that. I've worked damn hard to make sure he doesn't._

 _But I saw that fucking truck. Saw him, hunched behind the wheel, peering tired and sickly over the wheel._

 _A very small part of me, the part that still felt like Dean Winchester, the part that wonders who the hell is taking care of Sam, wants to go to him. Wants to drag him back to the bunker and demand to know what the fuck he's doing and why the hell he's here, pour soup down his throat and rip Metatron apart for breaking Cas._

 _That part is quieted, by the demon._

 _But it's not gone. I think, sometimes, I would have to die. Truly die, salt and burn, soul is gone no take backs dead, to get Cas out of my head and heart._

* * *

I'm sitting on my bed, when he knocks. Looking at pictures. These are the things that bring me home.

For as long as I can remember, we've moved, constantly. One shitty hotel after another after another. There wasn't room for personal shit. I barely managed to shove Sammy's precious books in the trunk with Dad's weapons. So I learned to keep my memories small. Easy to move.

And I'm looking at them now, flipping through pictures that keep me grounded. Remind me of all the people I love and all the ones I've lost.

All the ones I'm fighting for still.

And Sam. God, my brother, in so many fucking pictures. There's this one, where we're standing together and he's laughing. And he's so damn young. We both were. I've forgotten what it's like to have been that young. Hell, the apocalypse, losing Sam and Cas and Bobby and purgatory.

This life. It's stripped all of the young away. I feel old. So much older than I actually am.

But life is knocking and it knocks my nerves higher. I shove the pictures away and shift up on the bed, calling for him to come in.

Because it's him.

Of course it is.

Castiel never changes. He steps into my room, and I see the tiny flinch he tries to contain, like there are too many bad memories in this room. The way he falters before he forces a smile. "You look awful," he observes.

I grimace, something meant to be a smile that doesn't quite hit the mark. "Damn, Cas," I say. "It wouldn't kill you to lie, you know."

He does that fucking head tilt. The crinkle of his eyes. And the dry, "No. It would not kill me."

For a moment that feels like an eternity, I stare at him. When the fuck did it change? When did the bastard who pulled me from hell become…more. _Everything._

The thing is, I don't know. Maybe it was when we fought our way through purgatory. Maybe it was the way he kept me alive, so many times, there. Or maybe it was the way he didn't hesitate, taking all of Sam's crazy. Maybe it was his quiet penance. Maybe it was the way he believed in me. Or the tiny twitch of his lips and slight softening of his eyes, when he let go of Heaven's warrior and became my _Cas._

It's not. It's none of those things. It's the way he stood in front of me, and defied Heaven, in the small but real fucking important ways, giving me a way to save Sam from Lilith, even if it meant putting Chuck in danger.

That's the moment that started toppling dominos that led to here.

"Dean?" he murmurs, and I slip from the bed.

The demon is still too fresh, and I…

"I remember," I whisper.

He flinches. "I…I am sorry, Dean. I would take those memories from you, if I could."

I freeze. "All of them?"

He looks, for the first time, worried. Almost afraid.

I step closer. Invade his space the way he has always invade mine. There's something reassuring about him being this close again, "Would you take all of my memories, angel?"

His shivers at the term and makes a noise in his throat that I take as a no.

I nudge closer, and he falls back, until he's pushed up against the door and I'm leaning into him, and he's fucking shaking.

Castiel. The angel that destroyed heaven, threw down an archangel, stopped the fucking apocalypse, defied god himself. _My angel_. Is shaking, a whimper building in his throat.

"Don't want you to take my memories, Cas," I murmur. "Of all the things I want to forget, you aren't one of them. Never have been. I'll live with the monsters and nightmares, if I get to keep you."

He groans, then, and I smile as his arms come up around me, too tight, and he gasps my name, and his lips are under mine.

Fucking finally.

How long have I wanted this? Long enough that even though it's Cas, it doesn't fuck with my head.

Because it's _Cas_ and some days I think everything. Hunting, Azaelle, Hell, the fucking apocalypse, everything, was the road I had to walk to get _here._

And I'd walk it again. For the taste of his lips, hungry and desperate under mine, his fists gripping, too hard, at my back. For the rasp of his stubble in my hair when I trail my kisses down his throat, teasing and nipping until his hips buck against me and his voice a fierce growl in my ear.

" _Dean."_

And because I'm a bastard, and because he's here, in my arms, after so fucking long, I laugh.

* * *

" _Good things do happen, Dean," he says, staring at me with this intense as fuck gaze. Like he can stare me down, convince me to believe him._

 _Like me believing him matters._

" _Not to me," I rasp, and I see the pain that ripples across his face. And the determination, to prove me wrong._

* * *

He spent the past several years trying to convince me that that was true. That good things happen.

But the best thing is this.

Him.

Me.

"You said something, angel. Do you remember?" I ask, nipping at the skin, just below his ear. He snarls, reaching for me, and I laugh against his skin. Lick the sting away.

"I've said many things, Dean."

I pull away and arch an eyebrow. He makes a petulant noise in his throat, and I grin at him. Hair everywhere, his coat and shirt all over the fucking place, his chapped lips red and wet. So fucking turned on he's almost vibrating with it.

"Don't play coy, Castiel," I say, voice low. "What did you say?"

His eyes flare and he shoves me. Hard.

 _Angel_. I land on the bed and he's right behind me, on top of me, and his lips are brushing skin when he snarls. "You are _mine_ , Dean."

And I moan, because I am. I've always been his. His lips are at my throat and I buck my hips against him. Against the hard dick he's rubbing against me, and it's not enough. So I tilt my neck and swallow my groan when he growls and bites. _Fuck._

I've been marked before, by Heaven and Hell, but it's _his_ mark that I want.

"I'm yours, huh?"

He snarls, like I'm arguing, and I grab his hair, yank him up and kiss him hard. Until the only fight is who controls this, as his body rides mine like a wave, and I'm so close to coming I can taste it and him, _him_ , everywhere, and I don't want to fight.

I don't want to ever fight him.

I break the kiss and I gasp. "Then take me, angel."

His eyes go wide, all of the furious anger fading, until it's only Cas.

So fucking full of love it hurts, because he's looking at _me_. Like I'm precious and treasured, like I am more than just Heaven's tool, and the brother of Sam, or a hunter.

He's looking at me like _I matter._

He strips me slowly, wordless. Kissing over my scars and the place on my arm where his brand once stood out.

And leaves behind his own mark. Not the one from Heaven. But his. The press of his teeth, and bright dark bruises he leaves, scattered across my skin. It feels…reverent. An act of worship, somehow. Maybe because of that, I don't fight him. I don't writhe across the bed and beg for more. For his hand on my cock, for his lips wrapped around me. I don't fist my hand in his hair, and drag him where I want.

Even though I want to.

Even though I'm so hard it fucking hurts.

Until he crouches between my thighs, and his breath whispers over my aching cock, and I hear him groan something in Enochian, a holy obscenity, and my hips punch up because there has never been anything as fucking hot as my angel muttering heavenly blasphemies against my skin.

Until.

" _Castiel,"_ I groan, and he hums, his mouth too full to do anything more than hum around my cock as his hand wraps around me and he licks me, slides me deep, until I press against the back of his throat and I make a noise that I'll kill him if he ever brings up but I don't care, I don't care, he's here and everything falls away, except for _this_.

It doesn't take long. I gasp his name and his nails dig in, gripping my hip and he murmurs against me again and I'm coming, a broken noise that sounds like his name mixed with a sob spilling from me as he swallows, sucking until I quit shaking, until it's almost too much. Until everything has faded but the warm ache of _right._ Of him.

When I drag my head up, he's still there.

An angel on his knees, his chin resting on my stomach.

He looks perfect, lips red and shiny, hair a mess, eyes sleepy and hungry and burning with something that isn't heavenly but has to be a fucking religious experience because this is.

This is. He is perfect. Fallen and debased and so fucking perfect I almost cry.

I blink hard, and shift a little. "C'mere," I mutter and he crawls up my body, obedient as ever.

"Next time," I whisper, taking his cock in my hand and he keens, this high pitched thing that reminds me of his true voice, the one I always wanted to hear.

I hated that I didn't.

"Next time, I want you to fuck me, angel."

He whimpers. Gasps. Shakes as I stroke him, slow and steady, whispering in his ear. All the things I want him to do to me. All the things I've dreamed of doing to him.

And I have a fucking filthy imagination.

And I watch him, watch my warrior of heaven falling apart, all of his strength and ferocity laid waste at my touch.

When he comes, it's all over my chest, and it's hot, like a fucking brand splashing across me, tying me to him.

I've always been tied to him though.

When he comes, it's with this garbled Enochian cry that fades into my name and isn't that the hottest fucking thing ever.

When he comes, it's gripping me to him and breathing me in and grounding me. It's shaking and breaking and putting us both back together.

This is the thing that brings us home. This act, this thing that has always been between us. Because there isn't room for anything else.

It's me. Just me. The demon slid away, somehow. With Cas here, there isn't room for that black eyed bastard. With Cas, the only thing that fits under my skin is him and love.

He lays limp in my arms for a long time, and I stroke his back, lazily. Until he whispers against my chest, Enochian, and I dig my nails in.

"Don't hide from me," I order.

His gaze darts to mine, wild blue and afraid. "Angel," I breath, and it's a soft promise. " _My_ angel."

And he shudders against me, against my lips, and whispers the Enochian again, English now, the words that have always been there, hanging between us like a phantom.

 _You are mine._ And _I love you._

And wouldn't you know? Good things do happen.


End file.
